


street lights and yellow lines

by cominginside



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Windsor Spitfires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cominginside/pseuds/cominginside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to fall asleep on the bus home after an intense game sometimes requires a helping hand (or mouth).</p>
            </blockquote>





	street lights and yellow lines

**Author's Note:**

> Written at 12ways, as per usual.

They're a couple hours into a six hour drive home from Peterborough and Taylor can't sleep. It's nights like these that he's grateful he isn't in the Dub, with its multi-province, ten-plus hour drives, or even the Q, which is nearly as bad. Still--he can't sleep, too wired from their win that night, adrenalin overriding everything else. Beside him, Henny's dozing, as are most of the guys; he can hear the low murmur of conversation from somewhere near the front, Shugger and maybe Fowler, soft laughter that would usually wash over him and lull him to sleep, but not tonight. He'd tucked himself away in the back corner, hoping that would somehow lead to sleep, but even with the extra space around him, he's buzzing with it, the game replaying itself inside his eyelids every time he closes them. It'd been a hell of a win, goals and fights and everything in between.

"Can't sleep?" Henny asks, voice half-slurred as he wakes up.

Taylor startles a little, stares at him wide-eyed, but Henny just stretches and yawns.

"Nope," Taylor says, quietly. "Too wired."

"Mm," Henny says. He sits up, checks over the rest of the bus, then settles back again, somehow sliding to take up even more room, legs sprawling everywhere. "Sucks."

"Yeah," Taylor agrees. He watches the way Henny's eyes drift mostly closed before Henny looks at him, something dark and familiar in that glance making Taylor's blood beat harder.

"Maybe we can do something to get you to relax," Henny says, voice steady even as his hand drops to Taylor's leg and slides up his thigh.

Taylor's hard pretty much immediately, nearly dizzy with it, and he nods wordlessly, shifting so that Henny can cup him through his pants. He sighs at the contact, biting his lip to keep quiet; their teammates are heavy sleepers, and there's the noise from up front to cover for them, but still.

His sweats offer little resistance to Henny's hand when he slips it inside, pulling Taylor's dick out of his boxers and wrapping his fingers around it as Taylor muffles a moan. The hand job is just this side of too rough, too dry, but he kind of likes it that way, hips shifting restlessly as Henny jerks him. He drops his head back to the headrest and squeezes his eyes shut until he's on the edge.

"Henny," he whispers, reaching down and grabbing his wrist. "Gonna come."

"Um," Henny says, stopping. "D'you have kleenex or anything?"

Taylor shakes his head after a quick mental inventory of the backpack at his feet and Henny frowns, then rolls his eyes and leans awkwardly over Taylor, tugging his pants down until his dick pops free, ducking his head and sucking it in quickly.

"Oh fuck," Taylor says, barely keeping his voice quiet. He comes about two seconds later, before Henny even has a chance to do more than lick the tip of his dick and get a hand around the base.

Henny makes a face when he sits up, then grabs Taylor's hand and unceremoniously sticks it down his own pants. Taylor's too dazed to do more than hold on as Henny fucks his hand, precome slicking the way, but he recovers enough to think that Henny had a four point night and deserves more than a crappy handjob. He pulls his hand out, shoves Henny's sweats down, and wriggles until he can get his mouth on Henny's dick.

Henny's a lot better at keeping quiet than Taylor is, barely a sharp intake of breath, but he drops his hand to Taylor's hair and holds on just tightly enough to pull as Taylor gives him a sloppy blow job. There are a few close calls when the bus hits some bumps and Taylor thinks angry thoughts at whoever's in charge of paving the 401, but it goes a lot better than he's expecting, Henny's hips flexing beneath him and Henny's dick leaking into his mouth. Come's not one of Taylor's favourite tastes, but he doesn't mind it, either, and there's something satisfying about the way Henny starts to lose control just before he comes, breath quickening and fingers pressing bruises into Taylor's scalp. He swallows quickly, nearly coughing, and then has to swallow again before he can sit up and wipe his hand across his mouth.

There's a bottle of Gatorade in his backpack and he grabs it, taking a few gulps of it to clear the taste out of his mouth before handing it to Henny, who does the same. Belatedly, Taylor realizes that they're both sitting here with their dicks hanging out; he tucks his away and Henny does the same, giving him an amused look.

The orgasm seems to have burned off some of the adrenalin; he's not quite tired yet, but he can feel exhaustion starting to creep in around the edges in a way it wasn't before. Henny yawns and slumps down, his head lolling to one side in a way that makes Taylor's neck ache sympathetically.

"Thanks," he whispers.

Henny nods, but he's already mostly gone.

Taylor stares out the window at the town flickering by--Brampton, maybe, or some other Toronto suburb--and waits for sleep to set in.


End file.
